provided by the management for my what?

Have you ever noticed that the packaging for toilet seat covers always bears the slogan “Provided by the Management for Your Protection”? I would just like to be the first to give a big hearty shout-out to The Management for protecting my nether region. Really, it’s touching to know they care. If they cared that much, you’d think they’d give me a personal escort to walk me out to my car every night, or maybe they could warm up the temperature a bit so I don’t have to drink a constant supply of calorie-laden hot chocolate in order to stay warm in the frigid zone that is my office. But who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Late-onset pregnancy brain…

… or early-onset Alzheimer’s disease? It could be either. As an example, let me share a couple of recent conversations that took place between my husband and I.

Conversation #1
Me: “What is the best way to get to the car dealership to have my car serviced? Should I take the freeway?”
Him: “No, I think you should go to Moulton and then turn right on Lake Forest.”
Me: “Oh, never mind, I figured it out. I can just take Moulton all the way to Lake Forest and turn right.”
Him: “Did you not just hear me say that?”
Me: “Huh?”

Conversation #2
Okay, so I had another incident in mind, but I don’t even remember it now.

I better go and find me some ginkgo biloba.

family photo

Here we are on our vacation to Cabo. You'll note we are smiling. That, of course, is because this was taken BEFORE the heinous poop incident took place!

Am beginning to finally recover from the trauma...

if only it were a vacation from poop

I just got back from a fabulous family vacation in Cabo. Loved it. Warm days, beautiful clear water, delicious margaritas and gosh dang it, the best freaking guacamole I have ever tasted. The entire trip was about me finding new and innovative ways to include guacamole in my meals. Oh, who are we kidding, they were not new and innovative at all. It was more like “bring me some more chips” and “oh good, there’s a fish taco I can dip in guacamole.”

But anyway, it was truly a great trip. There is only one incident marring the lovely surface of this vacation. And it is an ugly one. It involves a diaper (Evan’s, not mine) that was horrifically dirtied the minute, and I actually do mean the actual minute, we sat down in the airplane to go home yesterday. So there I sat, holding my super stinky baby on my lap until the captain turned off the fasten seatbelt sign. Safety first! I merrily walked him down to the lavatory thinking we’d just flip down the little changing table, plop him down onto it and whisk off the offending diaper.

But NO. there was no changing table to be had and the not very helpful flight attendant refused to let me use the open space near the lavatory. Instead, he handed me a blanket and told me to change him on top of the toilet, with the lid down. I was game for it until I went in and discovered that America West has the TINIEST airplane bathrooms I have ever seen. There was barely enough room for me, let alone the squirming poopy wonder.

Not having another choice, I figured I’d just go for it and try to set a record for the fastest diaper change in history. But it was not to be.

The makeshift changing table, aka the toilet lid, was way too small. His head hung off the back while his feet kicked wildly. Once the pants were off the twisting and shrieking started. Then, once the diaper was off it was a race against time to remove all traces of poop while the twisting and shrieking continued. At one point the situation deteriorated into what can only be described as a flailing poop fling fest. I frantically pulled out wipes, dabbed and swiped at him as best I could but what can I say, there were casualties.

Like the sleeve of my shirt, for example, and the spots of poop that were probably left on various surfaces after I could no longer take the carnage and vacated the lavatory. I’m pretty sure I dropped an f-bomb in there, and those of you who know me know it’s extremely out of character.

On behalf of all parents everywhere, I blame America West. Any flight that is more than an hour long must have a proper facility to change a diaper. Otherwise, everyone suffers. Like any passenger on flight 6301 who visited the rear right-hand lavatory after we were done in there.

amendment

My aforementioned husband has filed a complaint about my last post and demanded a retraction. Apparently he feels that it made him look like a bad cook who prepares only Top Ramen and Hamburger Helper. My point was, if the cooking is left to ME, we eat Top Ramen and Hamburger Helper (unless it is Saturday afternoon, where he feels free to whip up a double batch of the Ramen. Don’t deny it!). However, to be fair, when HE cooks, we eat things like pasta with delicious homemade tomato sauce, broiled salmon with brown rice and other yummy fare.

So, I’ll shout it from the rooftops: NOT ONLY does he refuse to let us starve, but he selects delicious and nutritious entrees and cooks them up with a smile.

He’s a regular Martha Stewart.

Except that Martha probably wouldn’t leave her socks on the floor right next to the laundry hamper.